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“Come on, Obi. Join us at our table. Three’s company.” Garen Muln waved his oldest friend over to his table at Maz Kanata’s castle, indicating the seat next to Quinlan Vos. “Our masters are downstairs looking at the ancient Jedi artifacts for now, and when they leave, we’ll pretend to leave with them and sneak out again.”
Obi-Wan took the seat offered. “What are we having? I mean, what do we have enough credits for?”
“I’m having a gin and tonic.” Garen was at that awkward stage of a young man’s life in which he was trying on the tastes of a sophisticated gentleman for size, trying to find drinks that were manly enough while also being sweet enough for a novice to handle. Last time, when he ordered a caipirinha, Quin had teased him mercilessly about being an elegant lady. Garen had eventually settled on cocktails involving gin and some variation of a citrusy soda.
Quinlan Vos gave Garen a good-natured smack on his shoulder. “I like to get straight to the point. Tequila shots for me. How about you, Obi?”
Obi-Wan pondered the drinks menu. This time for sure he would reign it in. He better make every drink count. “A gin martini. No skimping on the vermouth.” There. That should be cost effective. He better stick to a reasonable number of drinks this time. It was embarrassing to run out of credits.
“My master is recommending me for my trials soon. Drink to my imminent knighting!” Quinlan was smiling, the yellow tattoo across his cheeks and nose bridge looking thinner than usual with his features scrunched together into a grin.
“Cheers.” The three senior padawans clinked glasses and took their first sips. At least Garen sipped. Quinlan threw his head back and downed his tequila shot in one gulp, then let out a happy sigh. He brought the now-empty shot glass down onto the table with a thud and rubbed his hands together.
“Aw, that’s the good stuff. Smooth, flavorful.” Truth be told, he knew nothing about the flavors or fragrances or different grades of tequila, but had learned to talk as if he did. The fire-water burned on its way down, making him feel alive. He would swagger and talk about similar drinking episodes from the not-so-distant past, focusing on the ones from five years ago when he was still seventeen and therefore underage, but it would be at least forty-five minutes before he ordered his next drink. Besides, this was not the main course. Maz’s place was not the only nightlife on Takodana. There was a nice little joint where he could dance with Twi’lek girls for a fee. If they liked him enough, he might get more than a dance, maybe a kiss or something extra. Needless to say, Quinlan Vos loved Takodana.
Garen sipped his gin and tonic. Once he got suitably tipsy and loosened up, he would be able to handle a gin buck and then a gin rickey, in that order, and that would be all for tonight. Any more and he would have to expend too much effort on Force-metabolizing the alcohol to avoid a hangover, which defeated the purpose of going out. He sat back and took in his surroundings, enjoying the ambience of the ancient castle, rumored to be a former Jedi temple, and the shady clients of all walks of life. Maz herself sat at the head of one of the long tables in the middle of the great hall, under a faded, threadbare tapestry, holding court with some rough-looking spacers.
Obi-Wan raised his inverted cone-shaped glass to his lips and took a silent but hearty draught on his martini. He could barely taste the olive and the drink burned his lips and tongue, but he did not care. There was a woman a few tables away who had the same white-blond hair as Satine. He had sworn to Qui-Gon that he had forgotten the duchess, remembering only the lessons of the mission, even tried to convince himself that he had let her go, but of course he could not. This was an attachment. This was forbidden. Four years ago, when he met that girl, he was still fresh from Melida/ Daan, from the shock of having Cerasi die in his arms. He was not in his right mind. If only that were true. He knew exactly what he was doing and would do it again in a heartbeat, and that was the trouble.
The serving droid came near, and Obi-Wan plucked the olive out of his already-empty glass, popped it in his mouth, and placed his glass on the tray. “A mug of muja fruit brandy, please.” He ordered discretely, not wanting to interrupt Quinlan’s tale. Obi-Wan was not actually listening to it. As soon as Quin had mentioned pine trees, Obi-Wan had been transported back to that forest where Satine cut his hair for the first time, when he finally understood the true nature of his feelings. A shiver traveled up his spine at the memory of her touch.
Ah, here comes the brandy. Obi-Wan was not even terribly fond of brandy, but he remembered when he was rather badly injured and Satine poured a small mouthful of the stuff into his mouth as a makeshift painkiller while Master Qui-Gon set the bone, which he then Force-healed. When Master Qui-Gon was not looking, Satine had come back to check up on him, propping his head up onto her lap, stroking his hair, and singing to him to help him feel better. In that moment Obi-Wan had relaxed and smiled, the pain gone. He let his master take the credit.
Oh no, Quin was looking at him. Obi-Wan smiled and remarked, blandly, “That’s one of your best stories, Quin.” The blonde woman a few tables over got up, paid, and left. Focus on the present moment, Padawan, Obi-Wan heard his master’s voice in his head. He flicked his braid over his shoulder and lightly whacked Garen on his bicep. “Remember the time Quin changed the settings on the humidifier in Bant’s room? She was so angry when she found out you were deliberately drying her out, I thought she was almost ready to fall to the Dark Side.”
“Oh yes, how could I possibly forget. She told her crechemaster about us, but she didn’t know which of us was the mastermind, so poor Reeft got punished because Quin timed it so that the three of us would be offworld by the time Bant ratted on us.” Garen took another careful sip of his drink.
“We were pretty cruel to her, in hindsight.” Obi-Wan flashed his sad little smile, which he had debuted after his return from Mandalore. He had not been very nice to Satine, either, when they first met. Now he regretted the time he wasted on being irritated with her. They had argued a lot, but eventually they realized that their values and outlooks on life were more alike than different. By the end of that year, she understood him at a visceral level the way no one else did, not even Bant or his master. He understood her better than her sister or any of the other members of her clan or supporters, at least, in her opinion he did.
Obi-Wan suppressed a yawn. He did not sleep very well even from earliest childhood, but in the last four years, nightmares were not the only reason for his insomnia. In the wee small hours of the morning, when the Temple was quiet with everyone asleep, Obi-Wan often lay awake, thinking about Satine, never even thinking to count nerfs. Master Qui-Gon also lay awake, missing Master Tahl, but it was worse for Obi-Wan because Satine was alive. It was a mistake not to tell his master the truth about them, to just walk away from Mandalore like that. He should have come clean, even if that meant expulsion from the Order, but he had felt that it would be too ungrateful to leave the Order again, after being brought back from Bandomeer and again from Melida/ Daan. Nobody was that patient.
At any rate it was too late now. Obi-Wan ordered a rum buck and forgot that his hand was moving the tall glass to his lips compulsively. Garen was still sipping his gin and tonic. Quin had moved on to rumors about Master Dooku and his current padawan, a Dathomiri Zabrak witch whose previous master had died. She was to be knighted soon, apparently. Quin had gotten a glimpse of her and swore that she was stunningly beautiful, even if she was completely bald.
“Wasn’t his previous padawan a witch, too?” Garen asked.
“Yeah, I think she was. He left her behind after a disastrous mission and she became a witch, I think. I’d like to see either of them try to bewitch me. If they’re pretty enough, I might just let them.” Quin boasted.
Obi-Wan’s polite smile did not reach his eyes. He was still completely under Satine’s spell. What had he been thinking, when he agreed to learn those songs? He had recited the unfamiliar Mando’a words under his breath tirelessly, all day long, humming the melodies the rest of the time. When Satine surprised him bathing in the river, he had not been angry or embarrassed, even though he was not wearing much of anything at all at the time. He knew it was time to sing her the courtship songs, hoping not to make any mistakes that might cost him the promised kiss.
He looked up from his drink, noting that he had buried his face in his glass. Maz herself was coming to join them. She made a point of interacting with each group of patrons, so that she would know everyone. The ancient orange lady clambered up onto a seat across from Obi-Wan and stared at him. He did not need to tell her what was new in his life, since she could see it in his eyes anyway. She still remembered him, even though this was only his second time here, the first time having been five years ago when he was fifteen and fresh from the trauma of Jenna Zan Arbor.
“I see a lot of sadness in you, a hole in your heart.” She had the tact to keep it vague, so that the other padawans might think she was talking about Melida/ Daan or even Bandomeer, but Obi-Wan knew what she was really seeing. “You’re struggling to release the sadness. Meditation isn’t working, drinking won’t help. You need to express the emotion, but not in its raw form. I recommend artistic expression. Music is probably the best option.”
Obi-Wan blinked. She was right, of course. There was no way that he could tell anyone how much he still missed Satine. He would be sent away again as a failed Jedi, destroying his chance to make a difference in the galaxy, so that the people who had died because of him on Melida/ Daan would not have died in vain. Satine was needed by her people. But her hair streaked with summer sun, her face more lustrous than gold; how she sparkled when the autumn chill nipped the air; the way she caught the fire’s glow on a winter evening; or with flowers in her hair in the spring; he treasured each image in his heart, cursing himself for having neither the courage to stay with her nor the fortitude to forget her. In the end, he had hurt her, like he hurt everyone who loved him, trying to have things both ways.
“I’ll have a glass of rum, neat.” Obi-Wan would blame the sting of the liquor if his eyes watered. “Is your chimney dirty? The air feels sooty and smoky in here.”
“I don’t think so. Maybe the fire has gone out. You know, when the flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes.” Maz humored him, but they both knew what she was actually talking about. Garen was pulling his tunic closed, apparently convinced that he was getting cold, interpreting literally the notion of the fire going out. Quin was smirking at him, pointing to his bare, muscular arms.
“I guess I’ll have another shot of tequila.” Quin decided he was ready for his next dose. He fingered something in his pocket, which Garen suspected was a deathstick. Quin had been talking about getting a hold of a deathstick to try. Just one, of course. It would not do to form a habit.
Obi-Wan downed his rum in one gulp, then immediately ordered another. Maz shook her head and left their table, telling Obi-Wan that she was ready whenever he was in the mood. He did not need any more explanation than that. He nodded at her. Maybe after a few more, when he was feeling braver.
The rum on his tongue burned, but the warmth flooding his body was a poor imitation of what he had felt that day, standing sopping wet and mostly nude in the river, water dripping from his padawan braid, having just successfully finished his rendition of the courtship song, when Satine had leaned over, wrapped her arms around him, and planted her lips on his. His first kiss. Hers too, probably. As far as he knew she had never had any other suitors.
The rush of warm pleasure that spread all through his body, the giddy feeling in his head, that feeling of having found the ancient secrets of the universe, of having transcended space and time, all of it was a revelation. He could never get enough of her lips, or her tongue, she could never be close enough. As his arms squeezed her tighter, he took a step back in the river to get his balance. That was when she fell into the water with a loud splash.
Obi-Wan smiled at the memory. He could feel his face flush, even four years later. Now that Quin’s second shot of tequila had arrived, he would probably start insisting on playing some sort of drinking game. At this point Garen finished his gin and tonic, and was waiting for his gin buck. When it came, Quin lightly whacked both of them on the head. He seemed to enjoy the texture of their cropped hair. For his part, Obi-Wan thought of Satine every time he or his master trimmed his padawan cut. Perhaps this was the real reason why Obi-Wan was so fastidious about his grooming.
“Embarrassing stories. Tell your most cringeworthy story, and I’ll decide whose is the most embarrassing. The winner takes a shot.” Quin was grinning in his predatory manner. He was not known for his discretion, so this particular game was rather dangerous. It was not wise to tell a story involving punishable offenses by oneself or anyone else, and certainly not stories that painted one’s master in a compromising light. Even in his current state of intoxication, Obi-Wan knew that much.
Garen went first. “When I was four, I had something of an exhibitionist streak, or so I hear. I don’t remember flashing Bant, but apparently I did.” This was the perfect type of story for this game. Embarrassing, but not incriminating. Early childhood hijinks were innocent and funny, not serious and criminal.
“Good one! Let’s see. Oh yes. The time I got drunk when I was seventeen and wet the bed. I had quite a lot of explaining to do to my master, plus a hangover to hide.” Quin told his own story with unabashed glee. He was not in the least bit embarrassed, but his story was probably exaggerated anyway. He talked a good game, but he had more sense than he let on. “Your turn, Obi. You never do anything embarrassing.”
Obi-Wan thought for a moment. He knew better than to tell the story of how he got up in the night for a drink of water as a new padawan of thirteen and caught his master and Master Tahl on the living room sofa, a tangle of naked limbs. No, his master was entitled to his privacy, especially since Obi-Wan himself was no longer innocent in that department.
“When I was maybe thirteen, I was assigned to give a research report in my galactic geography class about the aquatic planets. A girl in my group, Rissy, I think her name was, insisted I focus on Kamino. I went to the Archives with her and the other members of my group, and Madam Nu said there was no such planet as Kamino, since it wasn’t in the records. Rissy had played a prank on me to embarrass me in front of my classmates. She succeeded in making me embarrassed.”
Quin laughed. “Classic Obi, even your most embarrassing stories are academic and goody-goody. That story is so meta, it’s more embarrassing that you have nothing shameful to tell. I say you take a shot, Obi. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Quin had casually changed the rules, but it did not matter to Obi-Wan. He would have taken another shot of rum anyway. The burn of the alcohol was almost a substitute for the burn of spicy Mandalorian food. Almost. As soon as he downed the shot and ordered his next drink, his mind drifted back to what he had seen that night, as Master Qui-Gon hosted Master Tahl overnight. That was not the first time, and certainly not the last. It had taken Obi-Wan a while to realize what exactly he had witnessed. In hindsight, Master Qui-Gon was lucky that Master Tahl never got pregnant.
Four years ago, after his master had separated from the two teenagers as a security precaution as part of their mission, when it was just Obi-Wan and Satine, and they were hiding out in caves, they had started by huddling together for warmth. It was purely innocent, except that it was not. At first they were careful with their alibis, even if the only people they were fooling were themselves.
He had convinced himself that kissing was all right, as long as he did not go beyond that, but of course that was a slippery slope. He knew that, and he could have stopped at any time, not asking Satine to teach him the next song in the courtship process, but he always managed to find an excuse, generally something along the lines of fieldwork for his galactic cultural anthropology class that he was not even enrolled in, or a need to blend in better by being more conversant with the language and culture of the Mandalorian system, even if what he was actually learning was a very specialized body of songs in the Kalevala dialect. After they got into the habit of kissing, he told himself there must surely be a culture somewhere in the galaxy in which kissing on the mouth was a normal part of diplomacy and that this was good practice.
Satine loved to snuggle next to him and stroke his hair. Even the silly nerftail at the back of his head, which she sometimes threatened to chop off in the heat of an argument, she had found a use for, as a handle to grab when she moved in close to kiss him. He saw the longing and desire in her eyes the night she told him that he would need to learn more songs and a dance before they could go any further than kissing and cuddling. She wanted to do things properly, in the respectable traditional manner, but she definitely wanted to do them. He had to earn the right. So did she, really, which was why the dance was required. It took two to perform correctly.
“I could never love anyone else the way I love you.” Satine whispered into his ear after a kiss. “The enemy are closing in on us. I’m pretty sure they’ll kill both of us when they find us. I’ve been thinking,” Satine’s hand played with the shell of his ear, “I want us to be together when that happens. If we’re going to die, I’d like to die as your wife. I feel a bond with you, and I think it’s a love bond. I would regret it otherwise. So would you. Search in your heart, you know this to be true.” She had a pleading look in her eyes. He could not bear to see her distressed.
Obi-Wan had sat up bolt upright. “You want to get married? When? How? I’m a Jedi, remember? As you yourself love to point out at every opportunity.”
“If we’re going to die soon, it won’t matter. Nobody would know. No wedding, no witnesses. Right here, in this cave. If we say the traditional vows and go through the figures of the traditional dance, and we sing the traditional songs, it’ll be valid, if not legally binding. If I marry you, then even if we can’t be together in this life, we can be together in the next. Even if we get caught and killed the very next day, it will be worth it to me.”
“That’s what you call shereshoy, isn’t it? Live it up now, squeeze every last drop of joy out of life while you can?”
Satine had nodded, a devious smile on her face. Teaching language and culture was so much more fun when there was kissing and cuddling and the promise of something more involved in the “lesson.”
Was it a mistake? Was it just a case of two teenagers giving in to their hormones in a stressful situation? But just as Satine had admitted to feeling a riduurok love bond with him, he had felt a connection too, and it simply felt right when they were together. Try as he might to make himself feel remorse over this lapse in judgement, he could not help feeling that it was still the right thing to do. Obi-Wan could not possibly give his heart to any other woman. In that sense, perhaps his ill-advised marriage to Satine was helpful in terms of keeping him free of other attachments, in an ironic twist. It had been surprisingly easy to promise his master that he would not get attached to any girl ever again when his master came back for him not too long after the non-wedding. Never mind that he had already gotten a taste of newlywed bliss. It never occurred to him what might happen if Satine got pregnant.
Obi-Wan lifted his rum glass to his lips again, only to find it empty. Karabast. The serving droid came near, carrying a small jug of grog to another table. That looked appealing. Obi-Wan ordered a jug of grog. He tried to focus on Quin’s tales of his drunken exploits, mostly brawls he had gotten into, arms sliced off, doors broken down to enter establishments that had refused him access. None of it was anything to be proud of, but Quin was going to be a Shadow, so he needed to be comfortable with this kind of behavior and the people who engaged in it. “I need to practice my sabaac before I’m knighted, because I’ll need that for missions to Hutt Space. Do you think your master will be willing to work with me, Obi?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, sure, I believe he will. I still can’t beat him, so I know he’s getting frustrated. He’ll appreciate having a much better player to go up against, I’m sure. I can ask him for you, if I remember.”
“Thanks, Obi. Anyway, I was on Tatooine not too long ago, and I saw this amazing podrace. I won some money betting on it, too. That place has some surprisingly good watering holes, great variety of drinks, no questions asked, interesting entertainment. The Twi’lek dancing girls I saw were really something else. Wow.”
Obi-Wan thought of Satine’s coral-colored nipples, the curve of her hips, her breasts that were just the right size and softness to fit comfortably in his stretched-out hands, her fingers in his hair, the way she giggled when he kissed the smooth white skin just below her navel. No Twi’lek dancing girl could compare. He had promised to love and cherish and respect her as his comrade in life, to be her spear and her shield, as she was to be his. To be completely bare of armor in their hearts and souls in front of each other, to be totally and fearlessly loyal in the battle of life.
The rest of the non-wedding he performed with precision as well. He took her right hand in his right hand, their left hands placed at the smalls of their backs, as they stepped in a circle in the traditional dance, man and woman forged into one, the marriage agreement a shield against the vicissitudes of life. He had held his lightsaber up to his face, not having access to any of the traditional weapons of a Mandalorian warrior, singing to her, his face illuminated blue.
Oh no, the grog was already all gone. Why were the jugs so small? Why was he unable to forget or let go of the woman he should never have met, let alone married? The Force made me do it, was a stupid excuse. They were young, both sixteen, both underage. They were children playacting. None of it counted, except that he could never feel that way about anyone else, and apparently nothing he did could make him forget. Let it go, release it into the Force. Failing that, he would need to figure out how to stuff it, as Quin would put it. Keep a stiff upper lip.
The next thing he knew, he was guzzling a small jug of something that was not grog. What was this? Oh yes, that’s right. Quin had tried to prank him by getting him a jug of Maz’s home brew. This moonshine was strong stuff, but Obi-Wan could handle it. Garen seemed to be on his third and final drink, a gin rickey. He was lucky that he did not have a secret bride to forget. Quin would not be able to limit himself to just one lover, man or woman—Obi-Wan did not know and did not care which Quin preferred, or if he had a preference—and would not understand. It was forbidden, anyway.
“QUINLAN VOS!” Maz’s voice rang out in the great hall as she came back to their table. “How dare you pump that poor boy full of my poteen. That stuff is not designed for humans. Just because you’re a Kiffar—”
Obi-Wan finished the jug and put it down with a light thump. His eyes were unfocused and his face had taken on the tell-tale lined look, but he was not asleep yet and still sat upright, his posture ridiculously correct. He smiled at Maz, obviously dazed. “I’m ready. Play it again, Maz.”
“What am I going to do with you!” Maz threw her hands up in mock exasperation and toddled off to the piano in an alcove, under a particularly ancient-looking tapestry. “What key this time?”
“D-flat major.” Obi-Wan was grinning stupidly, but Maz was not fooled. She could see the grief in his eyes. That must have been one very special girl or boy. His Force-presence felt very nostalgic to her; she realized that the last time she had encountered another Jedi who felt like he did in the Force was centuries ago, when there were married knights, when the Code was interpreted differently. Oh. Oh dear. Poor baby.
Maz sat at the rather high stool and started to play. She had played this song the first time Obi-Wan came with his master, five years ago. He had sung the words then, surprising her. Now that he was older—he must be twenty, although he did not look it—his voice had likely stabilized.
“You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh—” Obi-Wan was not too drunk to hit the notes, although he probably would not remember any of this tomorrow, and was just drunk enough to have no shame. Perfect timing to get him to sing in public.
“The fundamental things apply, as time goes by.” The other patrons quieted down, impressed by his singing. The boy was good. Even Quinlan Vos was sitting quietly, calmly listening. If Obi-Wan had been a mediocre singer or worse, Quin would certainly have tried to obstruct his song for laughs, but the young Jedi was professional-grade, certainly as good as Sy Snootles.
“Moonlight and love songs, never out of date—” Maz could attest to that. She was a widow now, but from what she had observed over the years, the standard procedures of courtship were not so different from when she got married centuries ago. This boy, almost still a child, barely twenty, had already gone through so much. There was no substitute for lived experience, especially trauma, when it came to infusing one’s singing of torch songs with soul.
“It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die,” how true this was. “The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by.” Except, not the Jedi Order. Not in the last several hundred years, anyway. Force, what had he done?
When he finished, he seemed surprised by the applause, not because he did not think himself worthy, but because he was genuinely disoriented about where he was or what was going on. As soon as the music stopped, Obi-Wan began to cough. Singing had made him sick to his stomach. Garen cursed under his breath when Obi-Wan began to spew sick from his mouth. The pilot hustled his friend outside to finish his business into the bushes, making sure to keep his padawan braid out of the way.
Garen tugged on his training bond with his master. “Master? Can you tell Master Qui-Gon that I’m taking Obi back to the ship? He’s not feeling well. I’ve left Quin in the great hall.” He rubbed Obi’s back, thinking that pounding would possibly make him choke. How someone who had just given a professional-grade concert less than five minutes ago could now be such a mess was an annoying riddle. The self-destructive tendencies were most worrisome. Tears glinted in Obi’s eyes, possibly from his physical situation, but Garen knew better. Obi was trying to drown something. There must have been something or someone in Maz’s castle that had triggered a traumatic memory, and Maz had thought that singing would be cathartic.
“Ni kar’tayli gar darasuum...” Obi-Wan was muttering something in a language that Garen did not understand. He had a feeling it was Mando’a. Obi had lived there for about a year, on the run, protecting some politician, but that was enough time to get a feel for the language and culture, especially if there had been traumatic events to sear the language in his memory. Obi did not talk about that year, so Garen did not know what exactly had happened, but whatever it was, Obi was not the same afterward. Master Qui-Gon did not seem quite so affected, either, so it must have happened when it was just Obi and the politician he was protecting. That, or Master Qui-Gon was good at protecting his padawan’s privacy.
Obi had finished being sick, but his eyes were still streaming tears at full force. “Wer’cuy…” With that final comment, Obi passed out. Garen sighed and called on the Force to help him carry his friend back onto the ship.
That was the last time that Garen ever went drinking with Obi-Wan. He never breathed a word of that evening to Master Qui-Gon or anyone else after that, even though he often wished Obi would tell him what it was that bothered him so much. Crechemate’s honor, and all that.
For his part, Obi was different afterwards, too. His Force signature burned a little dimmer, but his performance as a senior padawan and thus his reputation improved as he proceeded to become practically perfect in every way, having buried whatever it was deep inside himself. He had finally learned to “stuff it.” It would be many years before Garen knew the full truth.